


Hopalong Cassidy Meets Old Friends

by spellcheckerror



Category: Hopalong Cassidy - Clarence E. Mulford
Genre: 19th Century, Action/Adventure, Bar-20, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Cowboys, Gen, Guns, Horses, Western, no knowledge of the series required
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellcheckerror/pseuds/spellcheckerror
Summary: American Southwest, 1890s. Business brings Hopalong Cassidy back to his old stamping grounds from Montana, and he is to meet up with his old friend Tex Ewalt in a small and dusty town of Dry Ford. A game of cards in the local saloon unexpectedly results in a shooting, and it's up to Hopalong to serve justice and right the wrongs, because things are not quite what they seem.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This work is based off the "Hopalong Cassidy" books series by Clarence E. Mulford, not the movies with William Boyd. The timeline is somewhere between "The Hopalong Cassidy's Protege" and "Hopalong Cassidy and the Eagle's Brood". Most of the characters are speaking fake Southernese the same way that they do in the original books.

The town was just like any other – with unpaved dusty streets, and false-front two-storey houses lined up along them, and creaky sidewalks constructed of warped, sun-bleached boards; and with stray dogs and stray children running through the streets raising dust and hell alike; and with a line of railway tracks dividing the town into two parts, one of which prided itself on being more respectable than the other – and although the grounds for this pretentious claim were dubious to say the least, an impartial observer would not be sinning against the truth, if he admitted that it certainly was not, at any rate, respectable any less than its counterpart.  
The hotel, too, was just like any other, its only point of distinction being the fact that it was situated to the north of the tracks and could therefore be considered a reputable and prestigious place of sojourn – by the Western standards, at least, which were neither too demanding, nor too strict. The first floor of the hotel was occupied by a bar-room, with a solid mahogany bar complete with a tarnished brass bar-rail, a battery of decent-looking bottles lined up on the back bar and a big brawny bartender who seemed to be constantly engaged in the endless process of polishing the speckless mahogany with a piece of cloth. It was still early in the day, and the west-bound train was not due in two more hours, and the business, therefore, was rather slack. A gentleman of forty-odd years in a gray three-piece suit was reading his newspaper in the back of the room; two local patrons in picturesque cow-country garb were dozing in their chairs tilted back against the wall, another four were engaged in a game of cards at low stakes; a smartly dressed young man was apparently killing his time playing solitaire without much zeal. Two or three men were leaning against the bar, placidly observing the room and its inhabitants. One of them flipped a coin on the bar, and the bartender nodded, swiping it away, and, without asking, fished a cigar out of the jar, placed it before the customer and said: "Here you go, Fisher". The man named Fisher took the cigar, bit off the tip, struck a match against the heel of his boot, waited for the stinky sulfur to burn out in a green flame and then applied the lit match to his cigar. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the young man who seemingly was getting bored with his solitaire. He scooped the cards and started shuffling them absent-mindedly, casting wistful glances in the direction of the poker players; hesitated for a minute or two, then rose and sauntered towards the gray-suited gentleman. The answer of the latter, apparently, was affirmative, and the young man sat down across the table of him, put the deck on the table, and they started to cut for the dealing.  
Fisher turned away from them and, addressing the bartender, exchanged several lazy remarks with him by the way of small talk. The mirror of the back bar, clear and clean to the point it was a rebellion against the time-honoured tradition whereby it should be cracked, hazy and fly-specked, offered him an excellent and not too conspicuous means of observing the room behind him. The cigar had been only half-smoked by the moment when something in the mirror arrested his attention. He stiffened, stared in it in disbelief for a second or two, then turned around slowly. The gentleman in gray suit had just finished shuffling the deck and was now holding it out for the cut. Fisher hastily threw away the half-smoked cigar, which landed into the brass spittoon, and hurried to their table, cursing inwardly. He hated to interfere, and he hated even more to do it in such a clumsy, undecorous way. But there was no time for niceties. Fisher stepped ahead and caught the surprised young man by the arm, preventing him from taking the deck.  
"I am sorry," said he bluntly, looking straight in the eyes of the gentleman. "The kid didn't mean nothin'".  
The deck dropped on the green tablecloth. The gentleman raised his eyebrows, looking up at Fisher with a languid interest.  
"Do I have the honour?.." asked he in a pleasant tone, but Fisher felt a shiver down his spine as he looked in the cold blue eyes. It cost him a significant effort to restrain himself from a quick furtive glance at the gentleman's right hand to ensure it was far enough from anything that could resemble or conceal firearms. He met his look and nodded.  
"San Jose, Garcia's place, twelve or fifteen years ago. Four-handed stud-hoss, four hours in a row, with th' last pot o' thirty hundred."  
The cold blue eyes grew colder yet, and the gentleman frowned slightly.  
"I recollect the game," slowly said he at last. "I do not think that I recollect _you_ in it, however."  
"I warn't in it," said Fisher. "I was watchin' closely, though. Admirin' yore skill."  
The gentleman chuckled and leaned back against his chair comfortably. His eyes sparkled with laughter, his sharp features relaxed and his nonchalant reply came with a soft southern drawl, in an easy and careless vernacular completely devoid of the veneer of proper grammar and articulation:  
"Shore, I seem to remember now. Th' gambler of th' house, treated me to a drink. Fisher, I reckon, was th' name."  
"It still is. Much obliged to you, Ewalt, for not skinnin' this young idjut here alive. Not to say he ain't deservin' it, of course."  
At the sound of the last name the younger gambler turned ghastly pale and gulped audibly.  
"Kids these days," said good-humouredly Tex Ewalt, for it was he, indeed. "All gall an' no brains. Well, don't look at me that way, son, I ain't goin' to eat you. That yore partner, Fisher? Nice kid, but has much still to learn."  
"I – I am sorry, sir," stammered the youth. "I didn't know. Gosh, I _am_ sorry..."  
"Yo're damned right you don't know nothin'!" snapped Fisher. "Mighty glad I am to hear it from you at last. An' yo're damned right to be sorry, too. Now git scarce an' try to stay both out o' my sight and out o' trouble – or yo're goin' to be sorrier 'n ever. Savvy?"  
The young gambler, apparently, "savvied", for he took the advice and "got scarce" with a laudable promptness. Fisher shook his head mournfully and seated himself in the vacated chair.  
"He's goin' to git hisself shot one of these days. Mebby he'll git me shot, too."  
"Oh, he wasn't that bad," said Tex generously. "Just a trifle too obvious with his false shufflin'. He'll git over it, in time."  
"Yeah – if it don't gits over him first," growled Fisher. "The drinks are on me, what you'll have?"  
"Straight rye, for ol' times sake. I ain't drinkin' much these days. How about a nice lil' game? Got anythin' agi'n' stud?"  
Fisher laughed.  
"It shore sounds temptin', Ewalt, but I'm a-feared I must pass. I ain't rich enough to play you. 'Specially when it's stud."  
"Suit yoreself, Fisher, but you shore flatter me. I am too old and wise for that tomfoolery now. I had quit th' life long ago. Am now punchin' cows an' enjoyin' th' peaceful solitude of rural life an' th' majestic, if somewhat monotonous, sceneries of th' northern Montanny."  
Fisher shuddered. His face was a study of shock, pity and disbelief. To think of Tex Ewalt having to work for his living! The Tex Ewalt who was still held in superstitious awe by a certain class of people between the Mississippi and the Pacific Coast, from the Mexican to Canadian line! The Tex Ewalt, whose name the crooked dealers of the lowest gambling dens in Denver still used whenever they felt the need to scare their young into behaving themselves!  
"What happened, Ewalt?" asked he in a low voice, wincing with sympathy. "Was you caught red-handed? Got penned up?"  
"No," answered Tex gravely, though the other man's reaction amused him. "Well, not exactly, though you might say it's purty much th' same thing, anyway. You see, I got married."  
Fisher nodded, tactfully holding back his condolences, because for a die-hard bachelor like him being married, indeed, was just another version of being "penned", and a worse one, at that, for a prisoner, at least, had a chance for escape and could even hope for an earlier release in case of good behaviour.  
"I see," sighed he, fingering the cards idly. "So that's what happened to you. No wonder that partner of yourn as I met couple o' years ago told me he had long lost th' track of you."  
Tex raised his eyebrows.  
"My partner? I never had no partner. I was allus workin' alone. You must be mistaken, Fisher."  
"I wish I was. But that feller had nearly cost me my job at Pecos Kane's gamblin' house, though seein' how it turned out later, I guess I should be thankful to him. Kane was doin' alright, but his greed got th' best of him an' he'd bitten more 'n he could swallow. He had riled up some mighty tough folks down there in New Mexico, and they rised up and burned down his gamblin' house, an' ha' o' the town to boot. Luckily for me, I was out o' there 'fore th' fun began. It was a dingy frontier town named Mesquite, and last time I heard, yore partner got thrown behind th' bars for bank-robbin', together with some other feller, though I believe they both escaped 'fore th' end o' th' day."  
"I tell you, Fisher, I never had no partner. I never paired with nobody, let alone bank-robbers. Some four-flushin' tinhorn was just a-stringin' you up, and you swallowed it like a newborn calf, bait, hook and sinker."  
"Oh, he warn't no robber, he never busted that bank. It was Kane's job, an' he got th' sheriff to pin it on somebody. Nach'rally, he picked up th' two fellers as were strangers in th' town, and likely on th' dodge, too. But partner or not, he knowed you, Ewalt, and knowed you well. He had all them tricks of yourn, though I couldn't remember at first where I'd seen that kind of play. And he had plenty of nerve, too! I was figgerin' on milkin' him dry, just like this fool kid here was figgerin' on milkin' you. I had dealt him good cards, tryin' to make him raise th' bets, but he just discarded – discarded them four queens like it was a pair o' deuces or somethin'! And then it's his turn to deal, and th' next thing I knows I'm holdin' them four queens m'self and starin' at them as blankly as a mule at a new barn, tryin' to figger out how it'd got there. I knowed of only two men who could deal from both ends of th' deck that way, and knowed them both, and he warn't any of them, so I reckoned it might'd been a coincidence, which should be checked to, though, so I raises th' bets, and he sees th' raise, and raises hisself, too, and when th' showdown comes, I lay down my four of queens, and he beats me with a four of kings, th' four of kings I was figgerin' on beatin' him with! Well, here was the third man, now, and here I am, rackin' my brains tryin' to figger out who he might be, 'cause his play seems familiar to me somehow, and then it dawns on me that he has some of your tricks and flourishes. I asks him if he knowed you, and he says, why, yes, he did, though he had lost the track of you long ago. And he said it was you who had learned him how to play poker, and it warn't no fault of yourn if he didn't play her any better – though for th' life o' me, I can't seem to see how it possibly could 'a' been any better. He warn't a four-flusher, not nohow."  
"I never had no pupils, neither. And I never learned no one nothin', except for mebby... Huh, I got a hunch I know who it was. What was his handle, anyhow?"  
"Called hisself Bill, Bill something. Bill Long, I reckon. Does it ring familiar?"  
"Well, not exactly, but I think he could 'a' been someone I know. Just how did he look?"  
"About yore age, or mebby couple o' years older. Dressed more like a cow-puncher, but down there you can't allus tell a puncher from a gambler by their duds. Blue eyes, red hair – and I think, he limped a bit in his walk."  
"An' did he tote a gun, by any chance?" asked Tex innocently, his eyes sparkling with supressed mirth.  
"He did, two of 'em. Which is a rare thing in a gambler, an' some folks classed him with four-flushers, seein' how he wears 'em low and tied down."  
"Bet those folks changed their minds before long," supposed Tex, doing his utmost to keep a grave face. "He was rather quick on th' draw and capable of some fancy shootin', wasn't he?"  
"I ain't seen no shootin' of hisn, but I done seen him gettin' th' drop on another feller with his double-draw, and he shore was a hell-roarin' patent-pendin' lightnin' on ball bearings. I was kinda figgerin' on offerin' him to work in pair. We could 'a' made a small fortune, travellin' through them border towns, but..."  
He checked his speech, for Tex had finally broken down and was now howling with laughter. Fisher cast a reproachful look at him, which only served to make the things worse, because Tex came dangerously close to falling down from his chair.  
"No offence, Fisher," said Tex at last, wiping tears from his eyes. "But somehow I think he wouldn't 'a' jumped to your offer."  
Fisher looked wounded.  
"I'm well aware I ain't nowhere near yore class as a gambler, Ewalt..." began he stiffly.  
"Oh, 't ain't that, Fisher. He wouldn't have much use for me as a gamblin' partner, neither. In fact, he don't think much o' playin' poker a-tall, though he shore can play her better 'n most people I know, barrin' myself an' mebby a couple of others. He ain't a gambler, he rather scorns th' trade."  
"Who is he, then? Some gun-totin' bad man from Texas, with a record longer 'n th' Ol' Chisholm Trail?"  
"Now, Fisher, you ain't doin' him justice. He may be from Texas, but he ain't no bad man, just plain and peaceful cow-puncher with as sweet a temper as the summer breeze in June. Only gits riled up when someone tries to harm his friends."  
Fisher did some quick thinking.  
"He appeared in th' town shortly after Kane's thugs had jumped on that SV foreman and taken a fat roll o' bills from him. They acted as if they didn't know each other, but I think... I think they did."  
Tex nodded.  
"Was that SV foreman's name Nelson, by any chance? If so, they knowed each other alright. Small wonder th' town was burned down. Them Bar-20 fellers shore are clannish; and for the Kid Cassidy could 'a' easily burned down ha' o' th' state without battin' an eye. Johnny had allus been a favorite with him."  
Fisher stared at him open-mouthed; then he laughed heartily.  
"You shore got me here, Ewalt! For a moment I believed it was Cassidy! And to think I was about to offer him teamin' up! It's on me alright!"  
"It shore is on you, Fisher, because that Bill Long of yourn was no other'n Hopalong Cassidy. An' you was lucky he didn't call you out and just cheated back instead. Fightin' Cassidy with cards is tough, but fightin' him with lead is much worse – an' you may take my word for it, 'cause I've tried both."  
Fisher, who finally stopped laughing, was now eyeing Tex suspiciously.  
"Am I supposed to believe you done tried shootin' it out with Cassidy?" demanded he.  
"Why, you believed him when he said he'd played poker with me, didn't you?"  
"And why on Lord's green earth shouldn't I oughta believe it? He didn't say he'd won any of them games!"  
"Well, I ain't sayin' I've won any of them shootings with him, neither."  
"Any of them, huh? So it was more 'n once?"  
"I tried gunplay with him three times, Fisher, and if I lived to tell you-all about it, it wasn't through no fault of hisn, an' no feat of mine, neither. He could 'a' shot me down like a dog, only he ain't. An' if yo're aimin' to find out why, you'd better go an' ask him, 'cause I'd be damned if I know."  
Fisher snorted impatiently.  
"Mind you, Ewalt, it ain't that I'm sayin' yo're lyin'. I just don't believe a single word of it, that's all."  
"Fair enough. Let us not quarrel over such triflin' matters. By the way, Fisher, if you objects to two-handed stud, what you say about a four-handed game of draw? Nothin' reckless in the way of bets, say, a penny-ante with ten cents limit?"  
"Guess it won't bust me none. Who's th' other two?"  
"Looks like yore young friend found hisself a new mark. Better call 'em over, I've got a hunch you'd wish to keep an eye on that kid of yourn. Hey, Hoppy! Over here!"  
He waved his hand, and presently a smiling middle-aged puncher walked over to their table, his strong and steady gait ever so slightly marred by an almost undetectable limp. He shook hands with Tex and nodded to Fisher.  
"Howdy, Tex! Hello, Fisher! So you two crooked card-sharps done teamed up, huh? Lookin' for lambs ready for th' slaughter, ain't you?"


	2. II

"That we are," admitted Tex, ignoring the indignant glares of Fisher. "Though I allus was dead set ag'in' hard-drinkin' foul-mouthed gunfightin' lambs with chips on both shoulders and th' disposition of a rabid rattlesnake. But gotta play her as I'm dealt – pray do sit down, mister Bill Long. We're playin' draw, penny-ante, ten cents limit. That is, we are about to start. Care to join?"  
"That is what th' married life does to th' best of us," sympathized Hopalong, pulling himself a chair and sitting down at their table. "Don't think I'd ever seen you playin' penny-ante before you got yoreself hobbled. She must be ridin' a close herd on you. Wise woman, Jane is. Allus was. Wonder why she married a maverick like you in th' first place?"  
"Been askin' myself the same question," agreed Tex. "What did you do to that kid? I seen him tryin' to suck you into a game. Hope you ain't shot him; he belongs to Fisher here."  
"Only sent him to th' bar to git th' drinks. Here he comes. Nice and crisp as a new dollar, not a cringe on him. Here you are, Fisher, you keep yourn."  
"That young imbecile will be th' death of me yet!" groaned Fisher, in his mind's eye flashing a vivid picture of his protege's game with Hopalong Cassidy, the imminent conflict, its rapid escalation and lethal consequences. "He's a regular lightnin' rod for attractin' troubles! First I catches him tryin' to run a cold deck on Tex Ewalt; I cuts in just in time to save his sorry hide from a well-deserved lickin', and th' next thing I knows he's tryin' his damnedest to git hisself into a shootin' scrape with Hopalong Cassidy!"  
The young gambler's fingers suddenly became limp and wet, and the bottle of whiskey slipped out of them. Tex's hand darted out quickly and caught the bottle by the neck before it struck the floor.  
"I allus knowed you was a bad man, Hoppy," said he ruefully, placing the bottle on the table. "But I never even suspected you was bad enough to bring kids to tears with th' mere sound of yore name. Sit down, son, an' don't be a-feared, this big bad puncher won't hurt you none. Me an' Fisher will pertect you."  
His lean sinewy hand pressed the youth's shoulder, forcing him to sit down in a chair between Fisher and himself.  
"I ain't pertectin' no one ag'in' Cassidy," growled Fisher. "He can eat this fool cub alive, for all I care. Mebby that'll learn him somethin'!"  
"Bein' et alive never learned no one nothin' yet," rejoined Tex, picking up the deck and starting to shuffle it with swift movements. "But seein' as you don't need him, we might spice up our penny-ante a bit. Th' one who wins five games in a row can keep th' kid. I kinda like th' cub – an' Hoppy has allus had a soft spot for spunky youngsters with criminal inclinations. Johnny is too old to ride herd on him anymore, 'sides, he's a married man now. An' Mesquite has gotten away from him an' prowls now on his own, some'ere's in the ranges of Arizona, seekin' whom he may devour. Bet you Hoppy must be feelin' kinda lonesome without someone to bully at hand. Here you go, th' higher one deals."  
He quickly dealt four cards, faces up, and Fisher got an ace.  
"But what if th' kid wins th' game hisself?" asked Hopalong with interest, watching Fisher shuffling the deck anew.  
"Oh," Tex flashed a funny look at him, then took the offered deck, cut it and returned to the dealer. "Don't you worry, Hoppy. He won't."  
"Guess he won't, if you says so," agreed Hopalong, out of the corner of his eye watching the young gambler. He still was very pale, but he seemed to regain the presence of mind and was now looking at his hand with a perfect poker face. Hopalong hid an approving smile. The kid got nerve, after all – something to be respected even in an aspiring tinhorn gambler. Hopalong wondered what he'd do if he or Tex would try to claim their prize. He had no intention to take the kid away from Fisher, although he doubted the young man would profit from the company of the latter. But the older gambler seemed to be attached to his partner, Hopalong could see that much, and to genuinely care for him. He wondered what Tex's game was. He must have been "joshin'", of course – he surely did not need this young swindler at his UX ranch. Besides, he would have a real hard time trying to explain it all to Jane. Hopalong believed that the young Mrs Tex Ewalt was still living in a blissful unawareness of her husband's fascinating past, and it was in Tex's best interests to keep her there. Still, you could never tell with Tex. Even Hopalong, who knew him better, perhaps, than any man living, could not tell just now whether he was playing a straight game or not. He usually relied on his skill alone, which was in most cases more than enough to defeat any opponent, and did not stoop to cheating, unless the other man showed the way. The other two were playing square, well aware that any false move in this game would not escape detection, so Tex did not have any real need to apply his natural gift of sleight-of-hand on the top of his poker-playing skills – but Hopalong would not have sworn that he hadn't.  
A penny-ante game of draw poker, which is generally considered to be too bland and tame to satisfy a real gambler's craving for action, can move at a very fast pace and be as gripping as any table-stakes game, especially when it is played for any other reason than to pass time in the company of one's good friends. The young gambler's face was getting tense – he was losing consistently, and his stack of pennies was almost depleted. The other three were playing in the same luck, more or less, and Hopalong suspected that his friend's more nefarious talents had something to do with the young man's peculiar misfortune, for he could see that the kid was by no means a bad player; and he smiled inwardly, remembering his own first poker game with his then enemy Tex Ewalt. One thing was sure, at least – if Tex, after all, did choose to cheat, there was not a chance in hell that someone could catch him at that.  
Hopalong was a winner of four consequent games, when he decided he did not really need to play into his friend's hands. So he folded up, although he had had good cards, and prepared himself to watch the show. The young man had to drop out at the second round of betting and was now looking at Tex with a frank scowl, obviously having the same suspicions as Hopalong himself. The remaining two players were leading a fierce duel, which was a feast for the eyes of any true poker devotee, but finally Tex scooped his winnings and smiled complacently, leaning back in his chair. He squinted appraisingly at the young gambler, then sighed and shrugged.  
"Well, 't ain't much, but looks like I'm havin' a new cowhand on my ranch. You ever roped a steer, son?"  
"You can go to hell, Ewalt," blurted the young gambler, his face pale with fury and humiliation. "I am not going anywhere with you!"  
"Oh, you ain't, are you?" drawled Tex, his lips continuing to smile, his eyes glinting coldly. It was not a pleasant sight, and Hopalong frowned. He still could not see why Tex was deliberately forcing the conflict, but he saw with perfect clearness that things could get quite nasty if given their natural course.  
"Careful, Tex, he's heeled," said he softly, his glance resting on the young man's right hand, which was ready to dive under the lapel of his coat. The coat did not bulge noticeably in any place, so it could not conceal anything larger than a small flat Derringer pistol in a shoulder holster – a Remington, more likely, – but at such close distance even this toy of a gun would be just as dangerous as a good old '45.  
"Don't, you idjut!" yelled Fisher, grabbing at his partner's right hand. His face was alabaster white. "Whatcha tryin' to do – git yoreself killed?!"  
"It shore looks that way, Fisher." Tex snorted derisively. " 'Specially if he can't shoot no better 'n he plays draw."  
"Why, you crooked, cheating..."  
"Shut up!" snapped Tex, the lazy complacent smile wiped from his face, his voice resembling the warning of a coiled rattlesnake. "Shut up if you don't know how to speak to yore betters! Fisher, you watch this cub of yourn – I'm fairly itchin' to learn him some manners!"  
"Shut up yoreself, Ewalt!" growled Fisher, his face reddening slowly. "I ain't lettin' no one..."  
"Shut up both of you!" ordered Hopalong. "And you too, boy! The first one to draw is goin' to git it from me!"  
For several moments there hang an electrified silence, with everyone looking daggers at everyone else. This silence, bearing an ominous resemblance to the proverbial calm before the storm, seemed to attract attention to them surer than any amount of shouting and cursing would have done. A tall young man walked purposefully to their table, his face darkened with a suspicious frown. He was wearing conventional cow-puncher clothes, but on his unbuttoned vest was pinned a nickel-plated star that proclaimed him a deputy marshal.  
"Now what's goin' on here?" demanded he sharply, his right hand resting on the walnut handle of his Colt revolver, his gaze on Hopalong, unmistakenly singling him out as the most dangerous man.  
"Nothing?" suggested Hopalong, for the question seemed to be addressed at him. But though technically truthful, the answer was, apparently, a wrong one, as it failed to clear the frown from the young lawman's face.  
"I thank you for your concern, sir, but I fear it was unwarranted," said Tex pleasantly with a reassuring smile. – I do not think my nephew or I were in any danger from these men. True, we have had a slight disagreement over the course of the game, but taking into consideration the size of the stakes, it could hardly be of any consequences whatsoever.  
The sharp blue eyes of the deputy marshal took in the stacks of pennies on the table-cloth, and his face cleared up a little. Though in these parts shootings and killings over a penny-ante game were not completely unheard of – and sometimes the aforementioned activities were induced by even less significant causes – still, as a general rule, the less amount of money would mean less amount of trouble. His glance swept over the sitting men. He saw a respectable gentleman, well-suited, well-spoken and well-mannered, and a clean-cut dapper youth next to him, his face dark with ill-repressed emotions, and the gentleman's hand on his left shoulder in a soothing, reassuring gesture. He saw Fisher for exactly what he was – a seasoned, weather-beaten professional gambler of the cow-country, an occupation that spelt out possible trouble; and he saw Hopalong for what he was, too – a two-gun man with well-worn walnut handles peeking out of well-worn leather holsters, an occupation that made future trouble not just possible, but very probable. His guessed the nature of the conflict – or thought that he did – and his frown deepened.  
"Now you should oughta be careful with yore words, young man, when you plays cards, even when you does have some notions," told he austerely to the young gambler, unwittingly bringing the degree of the latter's submerged anger close to the choking point. "This here ain't yore East whar you can shoot off yore mouth regardless and git away with it. An' you, mister, should 'a' knowed better 'n to let yore neffy set in on this kind o' game, let alone play it yoreself."  
"I fear that you are right, sir," said Tex humbly. "Perhaps we two had better retire to avoid any further escalation. Come, my boy."  
"I told you I am not going anywhere!" hissed the young gambler, his face now livid with wrath.  
"You do as yo're told, young man," ordered the lawman, pointing an authoritative finger at him. "An' if yore uncle's word ain't good enough for you, you have my order as an officer of law, too, an' I ain't goin' to have none of your lip! Savvy?"  
"Savvy," echoed the young gambler gloomily and rose reluctantly, Tex's hand still on his shoulder in its viselike grip.  
The lawman watched them depart, then turned back to the other two players.  
"You two are new in th' town, far as I can see," said he, looking straight into Hopalong's eyes. "This here is a peaceable and law-abidin' community of peaceable an' law-abidin' folks. We are hospitable, too, but we shore don't welcome troublemakers. An' let me tell you what – though gamblin' ain't no crime long as all parties are keepin' it accordin' to Hoyle, suckin' a greenhorn Easterner boy into a game of cards with such gents as yoreselves doesn't strike me as somethin' to be proud of. Hope I made myself clear."  
Hopalong heaved a deep sigh and promised himself to give Tex a good thrashing at the first occasion.  
"You did, deppity," said he mildly. "Quite clear."  
The face of the young lawman brightened up, and his right hand slipped away from the walnut.  
"Good, then. No offence meant. So long, gentlemen. Gotta meet th' train."  
He tipped his hat to them in a swift, brushing gesture, and walked out briskly. Hopalong shook his head and sighed again. Then he refilled the glasses and tossed his off.  
"Sometimes I think I should 'a' shot this son-of-a-gun when I had th' oppertunity. Would 'a' saved me a lot of nerves. An' now it's kinda late, an' his wife's too fine a woman to make her a widow; 'sides, I reckon she could be sorta fond of him by now. But that won't stop me none from lickin' him good!"  
"Say, Cassidy, d' you think Ewalt got it in for th' kid?" asked Fisher, his face lined with worry. "All because th' boy took him for a sucker an' tried to trim him? I heard he was a bad hombre to cross – th' spiteful sort that don't take jokes lightly. But that seems to be just too much – the kid never meant no harm! Why did he go on th' prod, all of a sudden?"  
"Doggoned if I know," answered Hopalong. "But don't you worry for th' boy, Fisher. Tex ain't no baby-eater, 'sides, I think, he really liked the kid's nerve. I know that I did. Reckon he must 'a' been pokin' fun at 'im, that's all."


	3. III

Hopalong spent the rest of the forenoon in nostalgic brooding. The town was a typical frontier town of the bygone days, and in his life he had seen those by dozens and scores and well remembered the specific, spicy variety of "fun" one could rely on them to provide. Yes, the town was right; but the time was wrong. Bygones were bygones, the frontier days were over, and so were the days of himself and others of his ilk. It was with a sad and wistful smile that he thought of those days, of friends and foes long gone, of numerous battles fought and countless cattle driven, of the only woman he had loved and how he had lost her and their son to a fatal decease. He had lived a life that was worth a hundred ordinary ones, but it had already passed its high noon and was now leaning towards sunset. He was not too old as to his years, not nearly as old as some of the veterans he had known in his time, who could easily outride, outshoot, outdrink and outlie any of them "young whippersnappers". But the world itself had been young then and was old now, thought Hopalong, secretly rejoicing in the fact that his own prime coincided with the prime of the West. It would have been a sad thing, indeed, to be old in a young world, but it must be even sadder still to be young in an old one, and Hopalong with all his heart pitied the young deputy marshal he had met today in the saloon. The kid was all right, but the time was all wrong – tame, bland and generally boring. And it was not his fault that he had been born too late, and there was nothing he could do with the fact. Hopalong knew that for a town to be "peaceable and law-abiding" was a good thing; but he also knew that it would have driven him insane in a matter of weeks, had he been in his twenties.  
He was strolling through the dusty streets, now grinning, now frowning slightly, but neither his mirth nor his displeasure was caused by anything that his glance fell on – it was his mind's eye that was conjuring up for him diverse tableaux from the past, and their intenseness was a sad contrast against the dull blandness of the reality. Still, Hopalong was Hopalong, and even deeply immersed in his musing and reminiscing, he never lost track of the surroundings. And when he had heard brisk footsteps behind, he leaned nonchalantly against a two-by-four post that supported the protruding second storey of a house and, having thus secured his back, started to roll a cigarette lazily, looking askance at the approaching man.  
The man turned out to be no other than the deputy marshal himself. And Hopalong's precautions could hardly be called unwarranted, because the young lawman's eyes were blazing and his right hand was on the walnut handle of his Colt, ready to draw at any second.  
"Yore guns," snapped he the instant their eyes made contact. "And doncha try nothin' funny, mister! I got you covered."  
Hopalong pondered for a moment.  
"No, you don't," said he as mildly as was possible under the circumstances. "But, lettin' that ride for a minute, deppity, do you mind tellin' me just what the hell is goin' on?"  
"You know that better'n anyone else, mebby." The eyes of the deputy marshal gleamed with ire. "Now, yore guns – or else!"  
He thrust his left hand before him, palm upwards, and the right one jerked out his Colt. But his draw – as nice and swift a draw as good manners call for in the vast open spaces of the cow-country – was checked midway, and the surprised peace officer found himself looking into the unsympathetic muzzles of two .45 Colts. His jaw dropped. He could have sworn that a split second ago the man before him was leisurely lighting up his cigarette, his hands nowhere near the holsters.  
"Well, I'll be damned!" drawled someone nearby. "Hopalong Cassidy hisself has nothin' on this here feller. He shore's a chain lightnin'!"  
Hopalong frowned at this flatterous remark, for he did not like the idea of being watched by people unseen to himself. His eyes were glued to the deputy marshal, who froze in his tracks with a half-drawn Colt, but still was alert and wary as a wild cat, ready to spring at his prey at the first occasion that offered itself. And watching the man in front of him, Hopalong, obviously, could not guard himself from a chance shot from a side.  
"I think we all got a bit too excited," said he in a level tone. "Put up that iron, deppity, an' I'll put up mine. I'll go with you peaceably an' answer all th' questions you wants to ask me. But I'm not givin' up my guns – not unless you have a warrant for my arrest, signed by th' county judge. I'm sorta particular about that."  
The deputy marshal rewarded him with a glare, hesitated for a couple of seconds, then put the Colt back in the holster and let his right hand drop along his side. Hopalong nodded and slowly put up both his guns.  
"Mebby we'd better talk in yore place, deppity," he said, his glance sweeping over the gathering bystanders. "No, you first. Go on, I'll folow thee, as a feller said once."  
"Who said that?" asked the deputy marshal gloomily, resentful of a possible joke at the expence of his public character.  
"I'll be damned if I know," confessed Hopalong frankly. "Heard it from a friend who'd read a mighty heap of books in his time. Must 'a' been someone important to 'a' crawled into a book. Where's yore office, deppity?"  
The deputy marshal led the way, and Hopalong followed, feeling a strange elation. The times, after all, had not changed so much. And the life was anything but boring.  
The marshal's office was, too, typical for a small-scale cow-country town and differed from its brethren only in one respect: the marshal himself was nowhere in evidence. Hopalong watched the deputy close the door behind them, then nodded amiably.  
"Well, son, I reckon you wants to look at my guns. I ain't got nothin' to hide, an' you may check 'em out – but one at a time, an' without no funny moves."  
He took his right-hand Colt and handed it over to the young man, handle first. The deputy marshal took it, sniffed the muzzle, then checked the cylinder.  
"One missin'" said he, eyeing Hopalong suspiciously.  
"Shore, an' th' hammer restin' on th' empty chamber," agreed Hopalong. "You ain't totin' yourn no different, I reckon?"  
The deputy marshal grunted, returned the Colt to its owner and checked the other one, with the same results.  
"Them guns ain't been fired for a while," sighed he. "So if you ain't got a third one on you, mebby it wasn't you, after all. More's the pity, 'cause you fitted in really well. Reckon I own you an apology, stranger."  
"No, I ain't got no more, I only have two hands, y'know," said Hopalong, smiling. "An' no hard feelings on my side, son. I'm a peace officer myself, a deppity sheriff from up in Montanny." He put out his hand. "Cassidy's the name."  
"Jackson." The young man's handshake was firm and strong. He peered intently in Hopalong's face, then his glance darted to the well-worn pair of Colts, and he asked disbelievingly: "You don't mean yo're Hopalong Cassidy, now, do you?!"  
"I've been called that way for quite a spell," admitted Hopalong with a sheepish grin.  
Jackson stared at him as a small boy would stare at Santa Claus, in a mixture of wonder, disbelief and frank, pure admiration. Then he laughed awkwardly, his honest young face blushing under the deep coat of tan.  
"Well, ain't it swell? After all these years this hole-in-the-wall town finally gits itself somethin' to be proud of. You know, like: "Yes, I lives in Dry Ford. The same Dry Ford which they tried to arrest Hopalong Cassidy in, some years ago – ain't you heard?" I'm plumb lucky, I reckon, – the Boothill could 'a' got itself a memorable spot to show to th' visitors, too. "Herein lieth the pore fool that tried to draw on Hopalong Cassidy. You've got what's been comin' to you, jackass", all in nice golden letterin' over fine white marble. The town fathers would shell out on th' very best for the sake of publicity, that's a cinch." He stopped laughing, sighed and looked squarely into Hopalong's eyes. "I am sorry, Cassidy, goodness knows I am," said he in an earnest tone. "Back in th' saloon I told you we was hospitable here – an' fine hospitality I shows to you!"  
"Forget it, Jackson," said Hopalong smiling. "An' you can count on me if you needs any help. I gather there was a shootin'? A stick-up mebby?"  
"Not exactly a stick-up, since nothin's been taken, but mebby a stick-up gone wrong. He had to vamoose after he'd fired that shot, so we ain't got him, but he ain't got nothin', neither. An' not th' faintest clew as to who was that gent. I was bettin' on you, an' missed th' mark by dozen feet. Say, Cassidy, what about th' other stranger I seen with you in th' saloon – th' gambler, I mean? He a friend of yourn?"  
"Fisher? No, not exactly a friend, just someone I met a couple of years ago and played a game or two with. I dunno him well, but I doubt he's yore man, Jackson. He's not th' fightin' type. He can and will rob you blind with a crooked deck of cards, but not hardly with a gun."  
"Shucks, then I'm stuck. The first case of gunnin' in th' town since I've been appointed, an' I'm as useless as a one-legged horse. What's the point of bein' an officer of th' law if you can't even find th' crook, to say nothin' about takin' him?"  
"Don't you overfret yoreself, son," advised Hopalong. "A man can't do no more'n he can. Besides, it's yore boss that should be losin' his sleep over that, to begin with. Where's he, anyhow?"  
"My boss? I ain't got no boss. Other'n th' townsfolk who are allus glad to boss me around, that is."  
Hopalong scratched his head puzzledly.  
"How so? Ain't you th' deppity marshal? There must be a marshal here somewhe'es, right?"  
"No, not in Dry Ford. They thought th' town needed some kind of a lawman, to make it look kinda respectable-like, so they went and appointed me, but said I was too young to be a proper marshal – an' to draw a proper marshal's pay. So here I am, a deppity marshal with my very own office an' a whole town on my hands. I ain't complainin', though, – ain't been exactly overworkin'. Dry Ford is a quiet little town. I only wish I'd been a deppity sheriff instead. Nothin' interestin' ever happens within th' town proper, but outside it – well, it's just like th' ol' frontier days..." He shook his head with resignation.  
"Well, you can't say nothin' never happens here," objected Hopalong, smiling at the young man's zeal and craving for action. He was so much like other youths he had known – Johnny Nelson, and Jimmy Price, and Sam Porter, and his own self, too, a score years back. No, the gallant spirit of the West was not dead, and never would be! Not as long as there are boys, such as this one, with clear eye, and steady hand, and a warm, noble heart. "There was some shootin' today, after all. Who's the unlucky gent that got slugged?"  
"Oh, you seen him in th' saloon, too. The Eastern gentleman as was travellin' with his neffy. Shore you remember them – they was playin' cards with you two. He had..."  
He stopped short in his speech, frightened by what he saw in Hopalong's face.  
"Killed?" asked Hopalong in a hoarse voice. "Shot dead?"  
Jackson shook his head vigorously.  
"No! Not dead! They took him up to th' hotel an' sent for th' doctor. An' th' Doc said, it was just a scratch an' he will be up an' about in a matter of days – that is, he would, if he wouldn't 'a' been from th' East. Them tenderfeet ain't used to that sort of thing. He'll spend weeks in bed, I reckon. I am sorry, Cassidy," added he in a commiserating tone. "So you knows him, don't you? By th' way you two was talkin' back in th' saloon, I figgered you was strangers to each other."  
"No, we're not." Hopalong sucked in the air through his clenched teeth. So Tex wasn't killed, that was the important thing. He'll pull through, and instead of breaking the terrible news to Jane, another, much more pleasant business was on Hopalong's hands: hunting down the sneaking coyote that shot him from the cover. There was not a chance the fight had been a fair one: very few men could give Tex an even break and win, and of those few no one would be dastard enough to steal away after the shooting was done, leaving his opponent lying in a pool of blood.  
"He's a friend. A very old an' close one. Sorry, Jackson, I gotta go. See you later, mebby."  
"Wait, Cassidy," said the deputy marshal hastily. "I'm goin' with you. He's come to, I reckon, by now; mebby he'll be able to answer a couple of questions."


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoppy finds out who has shot Tex. But why?

The room was big, and airy, and very quiet. It was overlooking the tiny back yard of the hotel, and was thereby cut off from the street noise and street dust. But its quietness was disturbing, for it was the quietness of a sick-room, and the pale face of Tex, almost completely drained of the color and competing in whiteness with the pillows it was sunk in, wrung Hopalong's heart with pity.

His eyes were open, and he had greeted his visitors with a faint smile. His right hand raised a little in a welcoming salute, then dropped listlessly on the sheets. Hopalong felt a lump in his throat. He had never seen his old friend so weak, so thoroughly vulnerable and lifeless, so devoid of his famous devil-may-care fire that had always been there, looking out of his eyes and dancing on his lips. Not even on that memorable day almost twenty years ago, when Hopalong had pulled him out of the flood, more dead than alive, with water in his lungs and several bullets in his body. Sure it couldn't be worse this time! Was it possible that this man of steel had grown old, after all?

He cleared his throat, feeling strange awkwardness.

"Tex, old boy... How you feelin'?"

The response was another weak smile.

"The medic has said that I would "pull through", and who am I to dispute the opinion of that learned gentleman?"

Hopalong blinked. Tex sounded "off" somehow, though he couldn't put his finger on the wrong part, not quite.

"Well, at least you can talk. Th' lungs are intact, I reckon. Now for th' more important things. Who was th' skunk? Did you catch a glimpse of him?"

Tex slowly shook his head in the negative. Jackson, who was standing at the side of Hopalong, stepped ahead. He had taken off his hat on entering the room, and now his fingers were playing with the brim nervously.

"Please, sir, this is important. Do try to remember. The bullet wound's on the front an' a bit to the side, that means he was in front of you. Shore you must 'a' seen him! Mebby not his face, but the size of him, an' his clothes, that sort of thing."

"Oh." Tex frowned and cogitated for half a minute. Then he sighed and shook his head again with an apologetic smile. "No, I am afraid not. It all happened so quickly and suddenly... Besides, there was a considerable distance between us. I think he was on the other side of the street. I never noticed his looks."

"There was a distance alright, otherwise it ain't likely we'd be talkin' with you just now," grunted the young deputy marshal. "What about th' slug? I mean th' bullet. Did th' doc cut it out?"

"He most certainly did," informed Tex dryly. "Though not without considerable effort. In fact, I am positive that he has done more damage to my anatomy than the bullet itself."

"So, where's it, then? Where's th' bullet?"

Tex shrugged impatiently and winced from pain.

"Well, how should I know? In the dustbin, I presume. Why? Was I supposed to keep it?"

The young deputy marshal stared at him, but "the Easterner" was obviously in earnest. He sighed.

"Oh, never mind that. I'll be on my way, then. Take care of yoreself, sir, and try not to walk in no more bullets."

"I promise to do my best," smiled Tex. Then, tearing a page out of a smal notebook that was lying on the bedstand, he scrawled several words with a lead pencil, folded up the note, handed it to Jackson and asked to give it to the clerk downstairs.  
When the young man left, Tex threw away the blanket and took half-sitting posture. The bandage over his naked lean chest was soaked with blood, and the sight of it made Hopalong wince.

"It ain't half as bad as it looks," grinned Tex, catching the look of Hopalong's eyes. "The slug glanced off th' rib and furrowed its way under th' skin. An' th' local butcher, whom they call "Doc" for some inconceivable reason, went prospectin' and found it in no more'n half an hour. Took him another half to sew me up afterwards. So I'm not goin' to die, not yet, an' you may as well stop lookin' at me with all the world's sorrow in yore kind blue eyes. I know you don't care one red cent about me, it's the idea of havin' to write all them condolence letters to friends and family that scares you almost to death."

Hopalong snorted, trying not to look his relief. It was clear now that Tex was up to something again, in his habitual way, and that meant everything was all right with him.

"Nice to see yo're yore old amiable self ag'in, you son-of-a-gun. When I heard you talkin' with that kid of a deppity, I was a-feared we'd have to put you out of yore misery, same as a hoss with a busted leg. You sounded like a cross between a doggoned schoolbook and a little girl that stubbed her toe an' is ready to cry. Now, what's yore game? You lied about not seein' the gent that'd plugged you, I gathered that much. What's up? Are you goin' to track him down yoreself? That's why yo're givin' th' kid a false steer?"

The smile faded away from Tex's face, and Hopalong was surprised to see that the expression on it was very close to a guilty one.

"It ain't as simple as that, Hoppy," said he slowly. "I'll tell you everything, of course, but first I want you to promise something. Promise me you are not goin' to go huntin' for him yoreself."

"I shore ain't spoilin' yore fun for you. _I_ ain't a hog. You goin' to deal with him yoreself, th' old-fashioned way, or turn him in to th' law?"

"Neither this, nor that." Tex sighed and shook his head. "I said it was complicated. An' it is. I'll tell it all to you in a minute, when Fisher is here, too. The note I gave to th' deppity was for him."

Hopalong raised his eyebrows. He could not see how Fisher fitted into the picture, for his was positive that Fisher had never been Tex's friend, not even a close acquaintance. But he knew better than to ask questions just now. He dragged himself a chair and sat down in front of the bed, preparing to wait.

He did not have to wait for long. No more than ten minutes passed, when Fisher entered the room. He looked worried, but Hopalong suspected that something other than Tex's sad plight had put the furrows on his forehead.

"I heard you was winged, Ewalt," said he by the way of salutation. "Nothing serious, I hope? Say, ain't any of you two seen th' kid? I just can't find him nowhe'e's."

"As a matter of fact, I have," replied Tex. "But first things first. Here's th' slug th' doc extracted from me. I ain't throwed it away, I thought you two mebby'd wish to have a look at it."

He put the little chunk of lead on the bedstand. Hopalong picked it up. It was smaller than the bullet of a .45 cartridge, the most popular Colt caliber west of the Rocky Mountains; smaller even than that of the old-fashioned .44s.

"Now, what's this?" muttered Hopalong puzzledly. "A .41? I dunno as I seen a .41 Colt in all my blessed life. Tex, you shore beat th' devil – you can't even git yoreself plugged by th' common stuff as would 'a' suited us plain folks, you gotta stand out of th' crowd!"

"It wasn't a Colt." said Tex in a pleasant tone. "Of course _you_ couldn't 'a' heard of it, bein' a plain ignorant cowpuncher an' never attendin' no school, but out there in th' big wide world there actually exist other brands of coffee than Arbuckle's, other sorts of tobaccy than Bull Durham an' other breeds of shootin' irons than Colts. That particular slug came from a double-barreled Derringer."

Hopalong shot a glance at Fisher. It was true he had never so much as hold in his hands a Derringer pistol, despising them as "toys" and feeling a wholesome Westerner's repulsion towards concealed firearms. But, being a Westerner, he had heard of them, of course, and knew they were a conventional gambler's weapon of choice. Fisher had a hip holster with a butt of a .45 Colt peeking out of it, but that neither proved nor disproved anything. Not all two-gunmen were carrying both their weapons openly, as Hopalong himself did.

Fisher looked very pale. His eyes narrowed, as he stared hatefully at Tex.

"I don't believe it!" said he in a stifled voice. "I don't believe it, Ewalt! This is all a frame-up! Don't you believe him, Cassidy, he's a liar!"

Hopalong frowned.

"You better watch yore tongue, Fisher, when you speaks of my friends," advised he coolly. "It ain't good manners to call a man a liar when he ain't fit for shootin' it out with you, an' it shore ain't healthy to do so in my presence. So it's a frame-up, huh? Do you, by any chance, tote such a gun?"

He saw Fisher's adam's apple bob up and down. The gambler made a small step backwards, but froze in his tracks, when Hopalong's hand dropped on the butt of his left-hand Colt.

"The Derringer might be hisn alright, but it wasn't he who fired that shot," said Tex mildly. "Leave him be, Hoppy. Didn't I say it was complicated? You better sit down, Fisher, an' hear me out. It ain't a frame-up, I ain't shore how to call it, but if I oughta put a name to it, I vote for 'a misunderstanding'."

"Misunderstanding, like hell!" chuckled Hopalong, as Fisher sullenly dropped down on a stool. "Fine misunderstanding it is, with a hole between yore ribs fit to read a paper through! So, if it wasn't him, as you says, it was the kid, right? I knowed from the start he had right stuff in him. Serves you right, you old chump, for badgerin' th' poor boy – you've got what's been comin' to you. Th' only thing that I can't figger out is how he managed to outdraw you. The wound is on the front, so unless you went blind all of a sudden, you couldn't 'a' failed to notice him goin' for his gun."


End file.
